Mrs s, p.12
Mrs S, page 12
She reappears. Are we driving somewhere? No need, it’s just up the road. Have I missed some cafe? Don’t make me laugh. Outside, the heat has already arrived. A blue so bright it is a knife, slicing. Jesus fuck, I forgot my sunglasses. I feel exposed in last night’s outfit. Can I go home and change first? You’re fine, not like anyone is here to see. The sun burns my shoulders. Too hot for jeans. Here look. She takes off her jumper to reveal a t-shirt. Now we match, feel better? I nod although I am still self-conscious, still on the lookout for The Girls despite knowing they are away. We go up through the first car park, past the boarding houses for those in their final year. After a second car park the hockey pitches appear on our left. A man mows the grass. The smell of his engine. He is shirtless. Jesus no one needs to see that, she jokes. Still we stop and watch, leaning against the fence, taking a moment to cool. Is it far to walk? No, it’s just a van, parks up in a lay-by that way. The man waves to us, then salutes, then jokingly flexes his arm. Jesus fuck. They can’t help themselves, see, they just can’t help themselves. Her head turns to and fro. Looking up at the fell to our right and back at the man. The snake head glimpsed on every twist of her body, the t-shirt sleeve rising and falling. I would get a tattoo. How happily I borrow from her way of being. The man waves again and she rolls her eyes. She makes the most of masculinity. Not the tattoo, not the t-shirt, but the way she lives in the hinges of her body. The knees, the elbows, the hips. My sweat with its alcohol edge. Her sweat too.
Come on this won’t do. She pulls unexpectedly at my hand. Let’s eat. We go a way up the narrow road, leaving the pitches behind. In a lay-by is a snack stand. Fried food and hot drinks. What’ll it be? Whatever you’re having. Your wish is my command. She joins the queue. Another wave of hangover sends me to a squatting position. I am tempted to lie across the tarmac. Instead I find a piece of grass and lean backwards, almost into the hedge. Ahead, beyond the road, is a fuller view of the fell that shoulders the school. I forget the name. It is laid bare. Pinched rock, the great sweep of greens and greys, armpit shadows formed beneath each steep ridge. Here, eat, you’re looking pathetic. She sits beside me. The sandwich is good. Great, even. Sauce stings the corners of my mouth. I got you a tea, no idea if you actually drink tea. Thanks. It is sweet. My hands are greasy. I wipe them on the grass and she copies. She finishes her food neatly, determinedly. I close my eyes and think, suddenly, of the fell pressed against my body. Rock biting into my collarbone, pushing me slowly into the grass, into the soil.
Oh shit, here we go. What? Ten o’clock. I don’t know what that means. The Housemistress points. She is coming up the road. A short summer dress. Blue. No, green. He, Mr S, is with her, walking a pace ahead, so they form a single file. A car passes too fast and he shakes his head. The Housemistress tugs at her sleeves then remembers her jumper, pulling it on at speed. Fuck I am not in the mood. We have not yet been seen. Even as they arrive in the lay-by neither looks over at us. Fuck, think we could hide in the hedge? She moves backwards, the short sharp branches pulling at her ears. Hardly. She rubs her eyes then pulls them open, pinning back her eyelids, blowing air upwards. Makes me feel like I’m a fucking kid again, how do I look? Fine, me? Knackered mate, you look knackered. Thanks, fuck. I wipe the corners of my mouth. Inexplicably check my nails. They see us. He waves, she smiles. Here we go. The Housemistress stands and I am forced to follow.
Ah the Australian, our Aussie import. I realize he does not remember my name. Mrs S doesn’t speak, standing just behind him, reading the short menu. Perhaps pretending to read. I would like her to be pretending. How are you both? Good, good. Enjoying this fine cuisine. He is relentlessly cheerful. Now she speaks, addressing The Housemistress. And what did you have? The usual, a bacon sandwich. A wise choice! We will be having the same! He answers for her. Mrs S drops her sunglasses across her face. It was really good. Your first-ever bacon sarnie? No, not quite. Ah well, hopefully just the best bacon sarnie, we aim to please. We we we. He is, apparently, all of England. Mrs S fades away, placing their order, returning to us slowly. I catch her eye, too briefly.
He rubs his hands together. Nice to see you getting along, don’t want to get lonely on these weekends without The Girls. The Housemistress waits for me to say something. Yes, no, it’s great. He is well versed in small talk. Have you done much exploring? Me, no. I swallow a smile and instead point at Mrs S. Actually our trip out to a swimming spot is the most travelling I’ve managed since arriving. For a beat he is silent. Oh, you went swimming, how wonderful, my wife is an excellent host. She is. He is unbothered. My chest swells. She did not tell him. She has not told him. She gives nothing away. Yes, well, I did mention how helpful she was in the garden, it was a thank-you trip of sorts. Her accent sharpens, falling in line with his. The Housemistress steps on the back of my heel. I take from his language. Well it was wonderful, a wonderful day, wonderful to see the fells, or at least a fell, up close. We aim to please, we aim to please. He is distracted, looking hopefully at the van, waiting for his order. I don’t look at her.
The sandwiches are called. Mrs S retrieves them. Goes back for tea. She wraps napkins around the takeaway cups. The Housemistress offers up her own polystyrene cup in a bizarre cheers. They reciprocate. He is pleased at the gesture, grinning. What have you got planned for the rest of the weekend? How will you make the most of your freedom? This is as far as we’ve got. Well look, here’s a mad idea, why not join us for supper. Tonight? Yes tonight, why not, it’s just the two of us rolling around that house. Mr S grabs Mrs S excitedly. She sips her tea, wincing as it touches her lips too quickly. A professional smile. Yes, a wonderful idea, please do come over, shall we say seven? This is my punishment. I am only sorry for The Housemistress who must now endure it too.
What happened to her? Who? The Girl who punched the boy. He is not surprised so much as forgetful. I wanted him to be shocked by my boldness. Mrs S is in the kitchen. He has a stupid mouth. Lips slack, permanently parted. The Housemistress and I are afraid to look at each other. I know she will agree about the stupid mouth. I will tell her later. She will, I’m guessing, announce that all men have stupid mouths. Nervous, she smooths and resmooths the white tablecloth. Moves the cutlery another split second apart, then, self-conscious, returns it to the original position.
I know the bedroom is just above our heads. Tonight, inside, it looks different, tonight she has lit candles, despite the daylight carrying on outside, the curtains half-drawn. We could have eaten in the back garden, but there is not enough furniture to seat everyone. She was very apologetic. It is warm, sleepy warm, the eyes in each portrait especially menacing, pupils darting with every flicker. Here is my punishment, to sit through this seance, this bizarre invoking of straight lives, of straightened lives. The details of the room are difficult to make out in the low light. Things I did not turn over on my last visit. A few photographs in burnt-silver frames line the top of the piano, obviously rarely played, a stack of books balanced on the stool. Indiscernible faces in the photographs. There are trinkets too, the kind handed down, possibly theirs or possibly belonging to the house.
Ah, That Girl, The Girl, she’ll be back to take her exams, I think she’s learned her lesson. You don’t think, given the same situation, she’d punch him all over again? He drinks his wine. Sucks his teeth. I’m not one for hypothetical questions I’m afraid, can’t be bothered with them. It is not just a stupid mouth. Married men have a smugness. I wonder if it evolves or if it is just there after the vows, after the first marital sex. I can hear Mrs S in the kitchen. Noises quick, violent, maybe a blender, a metal bowl. The Housemistress offers to help before I have the chance. You OK in there? Need a hand? Oh I’m fine, in my element, food won’t be long now. I suck my own teeth. It’s not a hypothetical question, really, is it, isn’t the idea to decide whether or not she thought what she did was good or bad? Well she knows it’s bad, she’s been punished accordingly. That doesn’t mean she knows she’s been bad. He puts his hands behind his head. Not sure ‘been bad’ is the phrasing you’re after. When he laughs it is irritatingly attractive. Each tooth bright white. His mouth momentarily less stupid. She appears finally. A different summer dress, longer, glancing the backs of her knees. An apron knotted twice around her waist. Her hands are placed lightly on his shoulders. Don’t let him wind you up. I would never. He pats her wrist. I for one have never been bad.
The Housemistress doesn’t intervene, doesn’t offer an opinion. Around him she is temporarily wary. Well we’re not here to talk about school. He reaches for the wine bottle and tops up our glasses. No? I wonder what he thinks we have in common. Bacon sandwiches, then? Now there’s a subject. She arrives suddenly, The Housemistress, her confidence uncovered. He laughs again. Precisely, yes, wonderful, now there’s a topic. Before the wine he mixed martinis. Each movement rehearsed. His whole life pulled from the pages of a novel, the scenes of a film, the lines of a song. His whole life one elongated wink. An inevitable grin when The Housemistress requested that her martini be ‘dirty’. My hangover is at least gone. Replaced instead with a detached light-headedness. I look longingly at a leather armchair and think about curling up. Drink more wine. They continue discussing breakfast food. The Housemistress is animated, wanting me to notice when she repeats the word sausage. I don’t excuse myself when I stand. It is easy enough to just leave the room.
Mrs S could be angry that I gave her away, that I told him about our swimming trip. It might not have been important enough for her to mention it and now I’ve made it seem suspicious. She turns her head only slightly at the sound of my body in the doorway. Chin at the top of her shoulder. A ceramic bowl is carefully washed and placed to one side. Jewellery heaped in a little dish on the sill. She could be embarrassed, maybe, too. My presence amongst the domesticity embarrasses her. I am not sure she knows shame. Only this spotlit feeling. The self, her self, suddenly illuminated against her will. Just wanted to see if you needed help. No, I already said, I’m fine, really. Smells good. Oh, nothing complicated, just pasta, spaghetti alle vongole. Another perfect pronunciation, another life revealed, this one taking place in Italy. I see clams in a metal bowl. One hundred set mouths. She pulls the bowl into the sink and removes grit, the tiniest flick of seaweed.
The kitchen is even warmer than the living room, despite the open windows. She finishes cleaning, the clams no longer clattering. I talk so I have something to do. Always a sink designed with a view, why do they do that, give the sink the best view? For the wives, to see something pleasant while they finish their chores. Parsley is rinsed, chopped. Ah yeh, I could’ve guessed. Cloves of garlic are crushed under the pad of her thumb. Do you feel sorry for me? Still she doesn’t turn around. Me? Feel sorry for you? The repetitive thud of the blade. Yes, this, my scene. Each word shared between us is turned over and over. She uses the knife to point at the stove, the window, the dishes piled up on the draining board. This, this, this. As she waves her arms the tip of the knife collides with the tap. She brings it to her fingers to inspect the damage. I come closer. Scene? You know what I mean. She stops. Puts down the knife. I come closer again. I don’t know anything.
The sun moves through the final steps of its choreography, striding into the remaining space between us. In the sudden turn I can’t see. Her hand finds my wrist and I am pulled towards her. One knee against hers, my hip bone buttoned to her hip bone. In the room behind he keeps laughing. Her cheek, the corner of an eye, eyelashes, the moisture of an eye. I find her throat. My fingers in her mouth first. She tips back her head as if to accept my fist. Her tongue. I touch a sound sent up from her body. A moan, it’s there, I stop it from leaving. Wet, I was wet before, as if I knew. The chance she knows me better than anybody. A chair screeches across the dining room floor and we part. At least our bodies part. My fingers remain in her mouth, slipping up over her teeth. The chair moves again. Behind us the scene has continued. She pulls my hand free, closes her lips around each knuckle. A slow exit. Only a pebble of sun remains in the window’s corner. Her face is suddenly clear, free from the bright burn behind her head. A trail of saliva runs her chin. Momentarily gold. A piece of jewellery.
The Housemistress wanders the hallway beyond. The bathroom? Her head appears in the kitchen’s second entrance. Just down there. Ta. The Housemistress disappears. A door opens and closes. The house breathes a little. She turns back to the preparation of our meal. Garlic is fried in oil. I want to tell her something romantic, something about the buttoning and unbuttoning of our hip bones. She adds parsley to the garlic, green on gold, perfumes colliding. But what is there worth saying. How language suffers compared to smell. The immediacy, a present tense left to distil in the veins, without explanation. I am increasingly dramatic. A pot of water begins to boil. I untie her apron. Put my hand up her dress. Find the small of her back. Her body, momentarily, is built alongside my body. I can’t reach her shoulder blades. The house keeps breathing. In the other room he is silent. This silence, his silence, is encouraging. I increase the pressure of my hand. She presses backwards into my palm, taking my body in stages, entering first the crook of my arm, then my pelvis. Our necks are clumsy. Maybe this will be it. Maybe this will be as far as it goes. At the thought I push my knee behind hers, willing her to collapse. Another moan, released. The sound surprises her. She clamps a hand to her mouth.
The throttle of pipes. Footsteps up the hallway, The Housemistress. Our veil is lifted. Nice stained glass you’ve got in there. Thank you, although, hardly my handiwork. A wasp, sent on by the heat, bumps twice on the window before entering the kitchen. Mrs S is not worried, only looking up once before returning to the bucket of clams, lifting it over the large saucepan. The Housemistress jerks her head as if the wasp has already found her, leaping into the hallway. Hey look listen I don’t mess with them. It settles on the windowsill. The slender abdomen throbs. Mrs S pulls a wooden spoon through the shells. A new smell, the smell of sea, brief, a beach in the morning, the sand still gaining warmth. Looks delicious, The Housemistress calls from the hall. Mrs S calls back. Come in, don’t be silly, why don’t you just come in, I doubt it wants to sting you. The Housemistress is tentative in the doorway. A foot barely across the threshold. In all honesty I’m allergic, I’ve been allergic since I was a child. Oh! Well then. I can’t tell if The Housemistress is lying. I don’t know about her fears.
Mrs S calls out to her husband. I join The Housemistress in the doorway. She grabs my waist and arranges me in front of her. Ah, my bodyguard. Whatever you need. The wasp lifts off from the windowsill and attempts an exit. That abdomen becomes a fingertip against the glass. In the pan I imagine the clams are opening their mouths. I have the sense I might faint and steady myself against the doorframe. How’s that hangover treating you? The Housemistress whispers. I feel bloody unstoppable. Yeh right. He makes a leisurely arrival, a record still in his left hand, half out of its sleeve. I was on music duty, what’s happening in here, I’ve been abandoned, have I. She opens a packet of spaghetti with her teeth. There’s a wasp, can you get it out? He kisses her not quite on the mouth. Your wish, my command. I did not offer to help and she did not ask. The Housemistress pinches my side, as if we are The Girls let into the staffroom, witnessing some coveted intimacy.
The wasp drifts, then zooms, into the middle of the kitchen. He slides the record back into its sleeve and fans it gently. Can’t be good for the vinyl but protecting the masses comes first. He aims his airstreams at the wasp. There is no particular plan. When the wasp darts chaotically close to his face, the record is put down, a glass taken from a top cupboard. Look, here, this usually works. Isn’t that how you trap spiders? Oh it works for all insects. Right. She drops the spaghetti into the boiling pan. Coaxes it underwater with the back of the wooden spoon. We have not yet kissed. I think about kissing her. I think about swallowing her tongue.
Here we go. The wasp lands once again on the window. He leans over the stovetop and brings the glass down over the wasp. Careful. Mrs S shifts his torso with both her hands. You’ll set fire to yourself. The wasp is pinned, thrusting back and forth, giving the impression of rage. Mr S doesn’t move, turning his stomach concave over the pots, balancing on the balls of his feet. Here, hand me the record, quick. I pass it to him and watch as he slides it awkwardly underneath the glass. Should have just killed you, he murmurs, addressing the wasp directly. What a situation we find ourselves in now.
I heard that when you kill a wasp it releases a pheromone which attracts other wasps. A pheromone? He turns his head a fraction to look at me. A sliver of eye. Yes, well, I don’t know if it’s a pheromone for sure, but something, some kind of chemical. What and the rest arrive to avenge his death? Not avenge, that wouldn’t be very insect behaviour, but maybe make sure the same thing isn’t around to kill them too. How logical. Finally he whips around, trying to keep the record tight against the glass. But it is too large a surface. His shirt catches on the stove, threatening a button. The glass smashes against the tiles. The wasp is released. Fuck, fuck, fucking hell. I am too busy looking at the fragments to see the moment he is stung. It is an expensive glass, one of the crystal tumblers, maybe original, maybe belonging to the dead author’s father.
Fuck me, fuck, excuse my language, God I haven’t been stung before, not even as a boy, fuck that hurts. Mrs S goes to him first. I want to be useful. Shall I grab a broom? Yes, yes, in the hallway cupboard. The wasp is still at large. God it’s like a cigarette burn, Christ. She kisses the back of his hand. A bump turns white, then red, then white again. He moves his head away from the injury. Is the stinger still in there? Let me see. Using her mouth she sucks. Not that I can find. His hairstyle has come undone, flopping over his forehead. Where is the bastard, surely killing him would make us even at this stage, don’t need to worry about his entourage arriving. It’s fine, let me. I take the record from the floor. The wasp has returned to the windowsill. I miss the first time, sending it up the pane. On the second swipe I make contact. It quivers for a moment, hopeful, before the abdomen curls to touch the head. He doesn’t thank me. Fuck do you think I’m allergic? The Housemistress returns with the broom. I worry he might start to cry.
